Hour of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #1) (3 page)

She took a shaky breath and moved away.

At the window, she pushed open a crack in the drapes. Ambulance in front and a cop car across the street. What would law enforcement do with her story? Uncertainty churned inside her. Were Swane‘s police buddies out there?

Paramedics jumped out of the ambulance and were met by the old man. Over at the police car, a uniformed cop was talking with someone. The lights, still flashing, illuminated his grim face and that of...Swane. As the kidnapper talked, the cop nodded and turned toward the house, hand on his pistol.

Oookay. That answered that.

A minute later, as Vic eased over the back fence, she heard Swane yell, ―Where‘s the girl?‖

The thwarted anger in his voice awarded her a moment of pleasure before she landed painfully on the other side of the fence.

The next afternoon, Vic steered the decrepit Jeep around a curve and entered Cold Creek.

She sighed wearily. Between the slashes on her back and ribs, the bite on her shoulder, her aching knee, and the various blows she‘d taken from Swane...well, maybe she‘d felt worse the day the house in Baghdad was bombed with her in it, but not by much. God, she hurt.

She hadn‘t even gotten to beat the hell out of the assholes—that really burned.

Her head felt hot and gritty, like it was filled with desert sand. She probably should have tried to get more sleep, but Seattle didn‘t feel safe. Not with who-knows-who looking for her.

Hopefully they‘d stay too busy for a while to focus on her. After her anonymous phone call to the police, the bad guys should be scrambling to cover their tracks. And wasn‘t that hopeful thinking—they‘d probably just abandon the place and the dead woman.

Oh shit. Was she brain-dead or what? That woman and others had died because Lachlan bit them.

Lachlan bit me. The good news: with him gone, no more victims would die. At least until they caught another cat-thing.

Bad news: I might die too. Her chest felt hollow. Dying for something so stupid wasn‘t how she‘d planned to go. If she had to check out, it was supposed to be in a blaze of glory, saving her buddies or a bunch of civilians. Not shivering and puking from being used as a feline chew-toy.

Go to a hospital? She shook her head. Swane would watch for someone admitted with an animal bite. She might call Wells for help, but he‘d expect the whole story. Yeah, see, I got bitten by some shapeshifter thing? She herself barely believed people could turn into animals, and she‘d seen Lachlan do it. The old man dealt in cold, hard, provable facts. He‘d figure she‘d gone bonkers and put her in a padded cell. So, no hospital.

The suit had thought the bitees died because they were in poor health to begin with. I"m not weak, not poorly nourished. And fuck this shit, I"m not gonna die.

She gripped the wheel tighter and concentrated on driving. Already the sun was setting, sending its fading rays across the valley and turning the snow-capped mountains a bloody red.

The traffic had dissipated after leaving Seattle. Not much going on in Cold Creek, according to the realtor. The town ordinances kept it from growing or even having a McDonald‘s. The realtor had sounded positively disgruntled.

Vic‘s smile grew as she drove through the downtown, maybe four blocks long with nary a stoplight in sight. Apparently, the residents had spent their money on the trees and plants in the center island and on antique street lights. People were strolling into the stores, sitting on wrought-iron benches in the shade.

―Toto, I think we‘re back in Kansas,‖ Vic murmured, unsure if she was pleased or appalled.

The peacefulness increased when she turned onto a small street with arching maple and spruce trees, brightly colored flower gardens, white picket fences, and wide front porches.

It was all very civilized until she looked upward to the dense green of an untamed forest.

One mountain, then more and more, piling up on each other like blocks scattered by a child.

Made sense that werethingies would hang out close to big forests and mountains, right? The thought sent icy fingers up her spine.

She pulled her gaze away and concentrated on following the realtor‘s directions. A block from Main Street, the sidewalks disappeared. There— House for Rent, Cold Creek Realty, See Amanda Golden. The sign was stuck next to a distinctive mailbox in the shape of an outhouse.

Outhouse...she could definitely use one of those. That swing through Starbucks had been a poor tactical decision.

The rental was a small brown house with white trim and a wide porch. Unlike the other houses on the street, this place boasted no flowers. Instead, short bushes marked the property lines, and a widely branching oak tree dominated the small, well-trimmed lawn. Looked peaceful enough.

A hotel would have been easier, but who knew how long this might take. She should have asked the kid his last name.

And she‘d have to be really discreet. Did the bad guys know Lachlan came from Cold Creek? Would the cops be alerted to watch for her? She wouldn‘t survive long if they found her.

The suit had shown no remorse over what he‘d done to the kid, and Swane had reveled in it.

She turned off the ancient Jeep—the only decent car in the cheapo car lot—and the engine died with an ominous sputter. A short, limping walk to the house left Vic out of breath, her legs quivering…and fear creeping into her gut. She‘d lost too much blood, taken too much damage.

Look at the way her hands were shaking. She couldn‘t defend herself against a five-year-old child, let alone someone like Swane.

Come to think of it, she wouldn‘t know who to defend against. She closed her eyes and shook her aching head. Coming here without knowing the score was like walking blindfolded into a fire zone. Even so, she wasn‘t going to leave. Lachlan had trusted her to tell his grandfather what happened.

God, she‘d rather face a Bradley tank with a twenty-two pistol than notify someone their kid was dead. Would the old man break down and yell at her like O‘Flannagan‘s parents had? Or be like Shanna‘s. Her best friend‘s mother had deflated as if her soul had shriveled away with Vic‘s words.

Why did people have to die?

At the memory of Lachlan and his courage, his humor, she had to brush the mist from her eyes. Dammit, stop. She could almost hear the drill sergeant‘s cutting voice, “You gonna break down and bawl, Morgan? Pick up your weapon and act like a marine!” She sucked in a breath, and straightened her shoulders.

On the white-railed porch, she glanced longingly at the cushioned wicker chair before rapping on the door. No response. She frowned at her watch. Five-thirty. Right on time. The blasted realtor better hurry, cuz, God, she really, really had to pee. Scowling, she looked around for a secluded nook that would serve for a latrine. Nothing.

Trying not to cross her legs, she studied the house. A screenless front window near the end of the porch was half-open—just calling to her. Really.

She shoved the window open all the way, wishing it was either set lower in the wall or her legs were longer. Dammit, haven"t I done enough calisthenics in the past twenty-four hours?

Grabbing the window frame with one hand, she jumped up far enough to swing a foot over and grimaced when the movement painfully jostled every fucking owie she had. She tried to pull the other leg over and—dammit—her jeans caught on something sharp. A nail. Stuck. Fucking-A.

She tugged, feeling the nail dig into her inner thigh.

Why does this stuff only happen when I need to pee?

Ignoring the wood pixie chittering angrily in the oak tree, Sheriff Alec McGregor silently stepped onto the porch, coming up behind the burglar. He tried not to laugh as the criminal squirmed like a paw-pinned mouse.

It‘d been a boring week so far. The last excitement was a good four days ago when old Peterson, having indulged in rotgut tequila, tried to demonstrate how to tap-dance on top of Calum‘s bar...which he did about once a month.

At least a pinioned burglar had the dubious distinction of being unique.

He rubbed his chin, feeling the rasp of stubble. He‘d noticed—being as how he was a guy—

what was wiggling was a very fine, nicely rounded ass in tight jeans.

And being a guy, he felt the need to see the front of this dangerous perp who had one leg inside the window and the other outside. He moved silently across the porch and checked out the criminal‘s front side to see what else the evening might hold.

Evening is going well. Hair, the rich color of dark walnut, rippled across her shoulders, and her purple T-shirt was tight enough to reveal amazingly lush breasts for such a compact body.

Since she was too occupied to notice his arrival, he could study her assets without being considered a macho pig. Abundant. Yes, that would be the word. He‘d heard the more-than-a-mouthful is wasted saying, but when it came to breasts, he was a bit of a glutton.

Concentrating on freeing her leg from something, she was oblivious to everything else.

He thought for a minute and decided to speak up. And hey, he needed to see the color of her eyes—for the report and all.

―My jail is empty today,‖ he remarked sociably. ―In case you wondered.‖

She froze like a mouse hearing a fox. When huge copper-colored eyes met his, everything inside him came to a halt, like the day he‘d been chasing a rabbit and got his leg caught in a steel trap. A hard painful grip, only this time it was his chest being squeezed.

The sound of her breath whuffing out, like she‘d been pounced on, cleared his mind. Cop—

I"m a cop. And she was a burglar. No pouncing on this little prey allowed...and wasn‘t that a damned shame?

―Oh, hell,‖ the lady perp said, obviously having recovered fast. She now looked more pissed-off than concerned, and that just wasn‘t right. ―Listen, I‘m really just—‖

He leaned his hip against the porch railing and crossed his arms. ―It‘s called breaking and entering,‖ he offered helpfully.

Her mouth dropped open. ―No way. Hey, I talked to the realtor this morning and—.‖

―Um-hmm. It‘s good you‘ve done your homework. Shows a certain pride in your work.‖

The sparks in those big eyes almost did him in. ―I am not a burglar, dammit. I‘m here to rent this place. Amanda Golden is supposed to meet me.‖

He studied her for a minute. She had the realtor‘s name right—‘course it was there plain as could be on the rental sign.

A wisp of scent drifted past him. Blood. Fresh. ―You‘re bleeding.‖

She blinked at the change of subject and he noticed with pleasure how her thick lashes feathered down against skin tanned almost as dark as her brown eyes.

―I‘m bleeding?‖

Herne help him, but she really was lovely—and he shouldn‘t let that pretty face suck him in.

She probably wrapped every male she met around her ringless, delicate finger.

Besides, she was human. Some shifters enjoyed sampling human females, but he‘d never understood the attraction.

He pointed to where a nail had snagged more than her clothing, and blood darkened the leg of her jeans. ―Looks like the previous renter overlooked a few nails from last season‘s Christmas lights. Let me get you down from there before I start on some serious interrogation.‖

Her eyes narrowed, then she leaned forward. Reaching out, she obviously intended to steady herself on his forearms, but the opportunity was too good to ignore. With a smooth move, he dropped low enough that her hands settled on his shoulders instead, and he grasped her around the waist. His fingers curled around surprisingly hard abdominal muscles—the female must work out regularly—and he lifted her up.

She gasped as he swung her onto the porch. Her grip tightened on his shoulders, lean hands, not soft, yet they felt very, very good on his body. Her hands would probably clutch his shoulders—just like that—as he slid inside her, filled her.

He shook his head. Where the hell had that image come from?

Her eyes were huge, and she smelled of pain and fear. He released her immediately. She was frightened. And he could tell it was more than just worry about being arrested. No, she was scared of him. The idea was insulting.

―Um. Thank you.‖ Her voice was husky.

―My pleasure.‖ After all, honesty was the best policy, and he‘d enjoyed the hell out of getting his hands on her. Was looking forward to enjoying more, but...she was scared of him?

On the street, a white Taurus pulled up behind the Jeep. Amanda Golden slid out, briefcase in hand, hurried up the sidewalk, and onto the porch. ―Hello, Alec. Ms. Waverly? I‘m sorry I‘m late. I got hung up at the title company.‖

―That‘s all right. I‘ve been kept entertained,‖ his ex-burglar said dryly.

―Well, damn, guess I have to let you go.‖ And she would have decorated his jail cell so nicely too.

She shot him a nasty look, her appealingly full lips tightly compressed.

When she started to move, Alec tucked a finger under her belt to halt her. ―Let‘s make sure you aren‘t hurt too bad,‖ he said. ―Nails can be nasty.‖

As he leaned forward, he realized the faint scent of blood wasn‘t just from the nail; it came from multiple places. She had dark red-brown spots on the back of her T-shirt. The gasp when he‘d lifted her from the windowsill—had that been from surprise or pain?

He studied her closer. Meticulously applied makeup covered a bruise on the side of her face.

There was maybe a lumpy dressing on her shoulder under the T-shirt, and something more than a bra wrapped around her sides.

Now, all that damage might be from a car accident. But that wouldn‘t explain why she was scared of him, the most likable fellow on this planet. So. He could be wrong—frequently was—

but he picked the most logical explanation.

Someone had beaten the hell out of her.

―Where else are you hurt?‖

Why would the big sheriff ask that? Vic wondered, feeling a chill. She‘d covered the blood and bruises adequately. Had her description and injuries been on an APB?

Dammit, he‘d already given her one scare. For a nasty moment, she‘d thought Swane had hired him until it became obvious he was just a small-town cop having himself a good time.